


Falling Down (and Getting Up Again)

by Estrella3791



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is the actual best, Brace yourself, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Crying, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, I love Crowley so much have I mentioned this yet, I think?, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i don't know how to tag, it's a problem, kind of?, serious overuse of italics, so much cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25031989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: Crowley is left reeling when he is reminded of his Fall. He's a mess. Aziraphale is so good. They'll be okay.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	Falling Down (and Getting Up Again)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look at me, posting again! Wow!  
> Ha, no, it's not wow. It's just me working through my MANY feelings about Crowley and the ridiculous amount of trauma he's sustained in his life. I have, like, two or three more of these (not EXACTLY like this, just they're also Crowley-and-his-trauma-centric) in the works, so get ready, AO3, you're not ready for what's coming.  
> Unedited, like literally everything I've ever written, because I am lazy and impatient.  
> Thanks for being here, reading this disaster of a summary, you're amazing and I love you.
> 
> Update: I came back and kinda sorta edited - mostly just took out the many extra spaces that got put in for whatever reason. Also, I said sillibant instead of sibilant because Crowley-hissing-fics were the only place I'd ever heard it and for some reason my own stupidity cracked me up. Anyway, thanks for being here, thanks to my BEAUTIFUL commenters for filling my soul with joy, and I hope you have an absolutely lovely day.

Today was a good day, Crowley thinks happily, as he snuggles into Aziraphale. 

It wasn’t eventful, per se. They woke up. (In the same bed, wrapped around each other, which Crowley will _never_ stop appreciating. ) They ate breakfast and looked out the window and complained about the neighbors. (Well, Aziraphale ate breakfast. Crowley looked out the window and complained about the neighbours.) They read (Aziraphale) and played games on their phone (Crowley) and went out to see what sort of trouble they could stir up (both of them, although Aziraphale went less for the trouble and more for the excursion). After a lovely few hours spent making life mildly inconvenient for as many people as they could, they went for dinner at the new Asian fusion place Aziraphale likes so much and then they came home (and it's their _home_ , something else that Crowley will never stop appreciating) and now they’re sitting on the couch, drinking wine and enjoying each other’s company. 

Well, Aziraphale is sitting on the couch. Crowley is mostly sitting on Aziraphale. But they are most certainly enjoying each other’s company. 

He’s not even conscious of dozing off until Aziraphale says, “Tired, dearest?” in a tender, caring voice. He uses this voice when he’s feeling fond of Crowley, which is often, which is _so_ _much_ and Crowley usually doesn’t bother trying to examine the feelings stirred in him by this. Usually they’re Complicated. 

“Mmm,” he drones, rocked by the unnecessary rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest. He closes his eyes and feels safe. 

The bottom of the world falls out without warning, and Crowley is wide awake in half a second, clutching at Aziraphale and babbling incoherently, and Aziraphale looks at him in surprise. 

“Ssssssssssssssorry,” says Crowley, the rest of the word sounding small next to the utter enormity of the hiss. He wants to say more, but he’s too rattled by the Fall. 

Not a fall, he wasn’t falling, it was Aziraphale standing up and taking Crowley with him. 

“No need,” says Aziraphale, looking surprised and more than a little confused. “Darling – ” 

“’Ssssssss fine,” snaps Crowley. “Put me down.” 

Aziraphale instantly acquiesces, and Crowley slouches off to their bedroom, buries himself under the covers. This is it. This will finally make Aziraphale realize that he shouldn’t bother with a _demon_ , that Crowley is far too damaged to be worth – 

The bed dips with someone else’s weight, and the half-second of sheer panic it sends tearing through Crowley at the sudden drop, minor and inconsequential though it is, has nothing on the immense relief he feels at knowing that _Aziraphale is_ _here, he didn’t leave, he didn’t leave me_ _alone_. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, sounding hesitant, and Crowley crawls out from beneath the covers. 

Aziraphale is sitting on the end of the bed, looking uncertain and holding a hot water bottle. 

“I found this in a cupboard,” he says tentatively. “Wasn’t sure if – ” 

Crowley is on him in half a second, wrapping around the warmth, resting his head on Aziraphale’s thigh. A cautious hand comes to rest in his hair, and he relaxes into it. He never feels particularly inclined to talk after a F – after he thinks about Falling. After he feels like… well. 

“Crowley?” asks Aziraphale after a moment, and Crowley makes a noise. He’s not sure what it sounds like. He just makes it, to let Aziraphale know that he’s here and that he’s listening. “Are you all right?” Crowley nods, sleepily, relishes the warmth seeping into him from the hot water bottle and the feel of Aziraphale’s trousers under his cheek. It’s almost like they never got up, like Crowley didn’t have a minor breakdown, like Aziraphale might just… “Please, can I talk to you about it?” 

Crowley feels himself tense up, and silently curses. Evidently Aziraphale is _not_ going to pretend that nothing happened. Shoulda known better. 

Crowley doesn’t want to be talked to about it, but he also knows that Aziraphale likes to talk about things, and he wants Aziraphale to be happy and he’s concerned that saying “No, you can’t talk to me about it, I never want to think about it again,” will make Aziraphale _un_ happy. And probably much more interested in finding out what happened, and then Crowley will never know peace. 

“’K,” he says, somewhat sullenly, and Aziraphale’s hand combs through his hair apologetically. The angel knows that Crowley doesn’t like talking about things. Not _these_ things, anyway. 

“Can I tell you what I think happened?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley is irrationally irritated with the question except it’s not irrational because there are reasons. 

For one thing, Aziraphale always does this when Crowley isn’t being very verbal. He’ll say what _he_ thinks happened, and then, when he inevitably says something that Crowley doesn’t like, he gets interrupted before Crowley even knows that he’s talking. It is absolutely unbearable because it always _works_. For another thing, asking questions that Crowley has to answer means that Crowley has to stay engaged in the conversation, and he’d rather let his mind wander somewhere less emotionally taxing. He knows that this is a conscious choice on the angel’s part, and feels fondly infuriated and infuriatingly fond. Just to be difficult, Crowley nods instead of making noise. Aziraphale doesn’t comment. 

“I think,” his voice is carefully even and his hand is delightfully heavy, “that when I stood up your mind took you somewhere unpleasant.” 

Crowley is pointedly silent. 

“I think,” says Aziraphale, a little more purposefully, “that the unpleasant place had something to do with Fa – ” 

“Yesssssss, okay,” hisses Crowley, “Very ssssssmart, very clever of you to work that out.” He doesn’t _want_ to cut Aziraphale off, but he just – it’s not – he can’t – 

“Would you rather me stop talking?” Aziraphale asks. He’s frustrated, Crowley can tell, but he doesn’t want to push, because he’s not _just_ frustrated. He’s also concerned. Crowley will never deserve him. 

Instead of exploring that line of thought further, he considers Aziraphale’s question. _Does_ he want to stop talking about it? 

He doesn’t like thinking about the Fall. He never has. He never will. It was unspeakably… well, that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s _unspeakable_. He can’t talk about it, because there is _too much_ to be put into words. Too much darkness, too much fire, too much _pain._ He doesn’t like thinking about the long, long, long way down, the wailing, the pure terror of the unknown and the absolute inability to avoid it. He doesn’t like thinking about the wreckage of himself, the destruction of everything he’d ever been. He doesn’t like thinking about what came before, or what came after. 

But he finds, with no small amount of surprise, that he _doesn’t_ want to stop talking about it. He wants to keep going, and probably end up a snivelling mess, because this time when he falls there will be somebody to catch him. 

He takes a breath, holds it, waits for something in him to rebel at the idea of talking to Aziraphale, of letting Aziraphale see… well, everything. It does, it rears up its head and lets him know that Aziraphale will be disgusted, probably throw him out of the shop, doesn’t deserve to be forced to deal with this. That last one is true, but Crowley ignores all of it and shakes his head. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and his hand, which had tensed in Crowley’s hair, relaxes. “Well… I don’t know what to say, honestly, darling. I don’t want to say something I shouldn’t. I don’t want to make it worse for you.” 

Crowley takes a breath. Holds it. lets it out. 

“Happensss, ssssometimesss,” he says, and the hiss makes him want to crawl out of his own skin but he can’t help it, he’s still too shaken by the feeling of… “Thissss.” He waves a hand around, aimlessly, in a gesture meant to encompass his panic when Aziraphale stood up, his pathetic dive under the covers, his powerlessness to do anything but cower here in Aziraphale’s lap and hiss at him. 

“I see,” says Aziraphale. “Would you mind telling me exactly what ‘this’ is?” 

Crowley minds, of course he does, but he’ll do it, he _will_ , it’s just… how can he explain it to Aziraphale? The sheer, blinding horror of being unattached to anything, of reaching out and grasping nothing, of the total ignorance of where you are in space (of _what_ you are, because even as you hurtle painfully, irrevocably downwards your identity is being stripped away), of falling, falling, _falling_ , of finding that what’s waiting for you at the bottom is even _worse_ … 

“Shhh,” Aziraphale soothes, scratching gently at Crowley’s scalp in the way he knows Crowley finds grounding. “It’s all right, my dear. You don’t have to if you don’t – ” 

“Falling,” blurts Crowley, and just _saying_ it makes him feel it all, again, makes him flounder in the bed, reaching, _crying_ , again, just from _saying_ – 

“Shhhhhh,” croons Aziraphale, gathering Crowley into his arms. Crowley feels his back, his arms, his legs. Crowley feels the bed. Crowley keeps his eyes open and looks at the room he’s in. He sucks in air and blows it out. His heart rate begins to slow. “Oh, my darling, you’re doing _marvellously_ ,” says Aziraphale, sounding so impressed and proud of him that Crowley can’t stop the tears from tracking down his face. Aziraphale wipes them away, presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’re here,” says Aziraphale. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” 

Crowley can’t take the look in his eyes – there’s too much compassion and genuine amazement and love and concern – so he buries his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, instead, runs his hands up and down Aziraphale’s sides, bunches the fabric up between his fingers. 

“It feelsss like F – like that,” whispers Crowley, when he feels capable of speech again. “Sssometimessss.” 

“Oh, my dear,” says Aziraphale, drawing Crowley impossibly closer to himself and cradling the back of his head like a _baby_ (Crowley likes to pretend that he hates it when Aziraphale does this but he secretly loves it), “I’m so terribly sorry.” 

“’Sss not your fault,” says Crowley, almost amused. 

“I know that,” says Aziraphale, “but I’m still sorry that you’ve _ever_ experienced this, let alone more than once.” 

Crowley doesn’t know what to say to that – his kneejerk reaction is to say that it’s fine, but he knows that this will lead to Aziraphale lecturing him on how it’s _not_ fine and he deserves _better_ and he quite likes that speech, to be honest, but he’s not in the mood for it at the moment – so he tries to keep talking. 

“Wasssss ssssscary,” he says, and falters. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, stroking his back comfortingly. Crowley tries to remember to breathe. 

“Very long,” he says. Full sentences aren’t going to happen. He wants to be angry about it but he’s so _tired_. “Didn’t think I wasssss ever – the ground didn’t – urgh .” He cuts himself off, frustrated. He can’t find the _words_. 

“You didn’t think you’d ever make a landing?” Aziraphale guesses, not letting up on his stroking of Crowley’s back. 

“Mmhmm,” says Crowley, grateful that Aziraphale is clever enough to fill in the blanks. “And the whole way down, it felt – it hurt.” 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley feels something hot and wet splash on the back of his neck. Aziraphale is crying. 

He pulls back, distressed, wanting to say something comforting but painfully aware of his momentary lack of word-using-ability. Aziraphale shakes his head, wipes his own tears away. Crowley feels useless. 

“I’m sorry,” says Aziraphale, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to – ” 

“Don’t be ssssssilly,” says Crowley. “Don’t be sssssorry.” 

“You sweet, beautiful, wonderful thing,” murmurs Aziraphale, and tears slide down his face again. “You didn’t deserve – you could never deserve – ” 

“Yeah, well,” says Crowley. “Doesssn’t matter now.” 

“You _never_ deserved it,” says Aziraphale firmly, capturing Crowley’s face in his hands so Crowley can’t look away. “Do you understand?” Crowley nods, because he wants Aziraphale to stop looking at him like that, but Aziraphale shakes his head. “Do you _understand_?” he persists, and Crowley would growl if he had the energy for it. 

“Yessssssss,” he says, and Aziraphale nods, letting go of his face to pull him close again. 

“Good,” he says. 

They’re quiet for a minute, but now that Crowley has started talking about it it’s like the words are being dragged out of him. And it hurts, saying them, but once they’re out… 

“And dark,” says Crowley. “Couldn’t sssee – jussst black.” 

Aziraphale is silent, tracing intricate designs on Crowley’s lower back. Crowley shuts his eyes and focuses on the sensations. 

“Could hear – ” he swallows. “Could hear.” 

“What could you hear, dearest?” asks Aziraphale, just like Crowley was hoping he would. He presses his face into the angel’s neck, breathes him in, marvels at how incredibly _good_ he is. 

“Sssssscreaming,” says Crowley, and he’s _so tired_ of the hiss but he finds that he doesn’t want to stop talking, he’s almost done, he’s almost said everything he wants to say. “Crying. All my – everybody – everyone that – ” 

“All the other Falling angels?” guesses Aziraphale, keeping his hold on Crowley tight and calming. 

“Yesssssss,” says Crowley, the drawn-out sibilant telling Aziraphale everything he needs to know. He starts rocking a little, and Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, tries to keep breathing, tries not to dwell on… that. 

That was back when he still cared, deeply and passionately, about his ethereal (soon-to-be occult, some of them) siblings. He cared very much, with all the love and concern his angelic heart was capable of, and hearing those sounds of distress, knowing that all of them were being made by beings that were having the same unbearably terrible experience he was… 

He shivers a little and cries quietly into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“’M sssorry,” he says. 

“Whatever for?” asks Aziraphale, pulling back so he can look at Crowley’s face. Crowley hates it when he does that. 

“For thisssss,” Crowley hisses. “For making you – that you have to – because – ” and he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, because he’s so tired of this, he’s so sick of lacking the language to say exactly what he means, he’s so _tired_ – 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, “I love you.” And he’s said it a million times if he’s said it once but Crowley _still_ writhes a little, turns bright red, because the reality of being loved back is _so much_ , so incredibly much, that he can’t just sit and take it. “And because I love you,” says Aziraphale, smiling a little at Crowley’s reaction, “I want to be here for you. I want to listen. I want to do what I can to help. You’re not – please look at me .” And it’s a request, not an order, Aziraphale would never make Crowley do something he didn’t want to do, but Crowley looks anyway. “You’re not _making_ me do anything,” he says insistently, looking so _deep_ into Crowley’s eyes with such utter certainty that Crowley wants to cry. “I don’t _have_ to do a single thing. But I’m doing them, obviously, because I want to. I want to, Crowley. I love you.” 

That’s a lot for a demon to have to deal with, so he squashes his face into Aziraphale’s neck to avoid those piercing, beautiful, _loving_ eyes. 

“Love you too,” he says, trying to enunciate clearly. The last of the panic is wearing off, he thinks. He’s starting to recover from it, he hopes. “Sssso – _so_ much.” 

That makes both of them smile, though probably for different reasons, and for a while they just sit like that, Crowley tucked into Aziraphale, feeling anchored and warm and safe. This time, Aziraphale asks him before moving. 

“All right if we lie down, love?” he asks. “Sorry to shift you, just – ” 

“’S all right,” says Crowley (no hiss!) and disentangles himself from Aziraphale to crawl down the bed and slip under the covers again. 

He’s very, very tired, having used a lot of energy to feel feelings and then talk about them, and he starts to curl up around a pillow but then there’s a hand on top of his and the pillow is gently yanked away and before he can get upset Aziraphale is there in its place. Crowley will always take Aziraphale over any pillow, so he curls into his angel, breathing in love and assurance and safety, and he falls asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, he fell asleep in his clothes. No, it is not going to be fun waking up. But for now he's sleeping so it doesn't matter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
